


somewhere a clock is ticking

by evocates



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:20:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nineteen-eighties, London. Sean meets a particular American in a club, and they ended up spending one-and-a-half days together before Viggo has to return to his own country. It’s just a single weekend, isn’t it? What difference can it make?</p>
            </blockquote>





	somewhere a clock is ticking

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is written after seeing the trailer (and film sypnosis) for [Weekend](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkC7xHAfxm4) and with The Civil War's _[Poison and Wine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfzRlcnq_c0)_ and _[Barton Hollow](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ooTyuRd9zSg)_ constantly running in the background. 
> 
> Also, I went with ‘Sean’ because a) I’m used to that spelling, and b) I think ‘Shaun’ looks ugly.

"What the hell are you expectin' me ta say?"

"I don't know. Just... talk about that first night? What happened- what did you expect to happen, that kind of thing, you know? Just... spoken words, and your voice."

"People are goin' ta listen ta this, aren't they?"

"If you let me show them."

"... I ain't making any promises."

***

Sean's hands were sweaty, and there was an itch at his wrists that he wanted so badly to scratch at. He looked down at them for a long moment before he sighed and wiped them on his jeans. His too-tight, dark blue jeans, ending in a pair of black combat boots with silver studs. He was even wearing a leather jacket. God, he felt ridiculous. Like a damn fool dressing up like David Bowie, standing outside a gay club and watching people who dressed like him and looked a thousand times more confident in their skins than he thought he would ever be. At least he wasn't stupid enough to think he could pull off make-up.

He took a deep breath, shoving his hands inside his pockets, and went in. But he kept his head down, watching the shadows upon the club's floor dancing instead of the lights itself. The bass thrummed in his ears, deep and heavy and booming throughout the place, loud enough to scrape against his skin, yet not loud enough to deafen himself. He curled his fingers inwards, forming fists inside his jean pockets, and he cursed himself for being stupid enough to walk in. He should just turn around and--

**

"You looked beautiful."

"Shut up. Are you gonna let me finish the story, or what?"

"I am, and I'm sorry that I interrupted. But I just had to tell you that I think you looked gorgeous, and if you had turned around, I would've gone home alone."

"That's utter bullshit. There were guys who were starin' at you like they wanted ta eat you."

"I know. Anyway- finish the story."

***

It was somehow more difficult to find his way out than he had walked in. Maybe it was because walking in was just letting himself push with the crowd, instead of pushing against. Maybe because he didn't want to. Sean didn't know, and he didn't want to think about it. He had never been the cerebral sort, honestly.

He had to look up in order to turn around to leave. He did, and he turned- and there was just something out of the corner of his eyes. A glint of hair off of one of the many flashing lights, most likely, but Sean felt his breath slam out of him, and he rocked on his feet. Someone was shouting at him, nudging at him from behind, and Sean moved on automatic, getting out of the way and stumbling forward, moving deeper into the club, trying to get a glimpse more.

It was a man. Of _course_ , it was a man, this was a damn gay club. But it was a man with hair like the straw that Rumpelstiltskin that turned into gold for the foolish weaver's daughter, and Sean felt his mouth went dry. The man was dancing, gyrating along with the music, and he had thick eyeliner on and leather pants that were slung so low that Sean could see the flashes of his hips. The curves of his pelvic bone, peeking out from beneath the white tank top, stretched by the movements of the guy's muscles. By his arms, raised above his head, and Sean watched as he spun around.

He threw his head back, his mouth opened wide in giddy laughter, and Sean ached to touch. He ached to reach out and feel that laughter against his own skin. He ached to find out the colours of this man's eyes.

***

"Don't say anything, you wanker."

"I'm not-"

"Look, I ain't a poet or an artist or anythin' close ta that, alright? I'm just telling you what I saw, alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, alright

"... Good."

***

"Looks like Vig got another one."

Sean blinked at the foreign voice, barely tearing his eyes away. The words were shouted but still barely audible. The music was ridiculously loud.

"What?"

The man standing next to him was tall, with broad shoulders and brown eyes. "That's Vig," he jerked his head towards the figure, raising his glass of... something or another that looked as bright green as Sean's highlighters in high school. "Viggo. Our resident Danish princeling. He comes here every once in a while and dances. Never seen him go home with anyone else, though." 

"I ain't looking," Sean protested, but the words sounded weak even to his own ears.

"Yeah? Well, come home with me, then."

Sean blinked. Stared. Blinked again.

"My name's Harry," the flash of a bright, cleanly white smile. Sean twitched a little, and he had a sudden, sharp urge for a cigarette. "I've been staring at you since you came in, all shy-like, and I really want to see you on your knees with your mouth around my cock."

Sean's mind shorted out a little bit.

***

"He said that? He really said that?"

"Yeah."

"I'm going to kill him."

"No, you ain't."

"Sean, this isn't the time for civilities-"

"You ain't gonna kill him because he gave me yer name, and I think he deserves one shot fer that. ‘Sides, I don’t think you can find him now even if you tried. Now be quiet and let me finish."

***

"Are all you Londoners so damn forward?"

It was only thing Sean could think of to say.

Harry- if that was actually his name- threw his head back and laughed. "Whatever answer gets you into my bed quicker."

Sean blinked again, and then shook his head. His hands were trembling a little, and his eyes darted towards the door. He licked his lips, wondering if it was too late to start thinking of escape. "Uh..."

"Don't worry, pretty boy." Harry knocked back his drink, and wiped at the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. "If you aren't interested, you can just say so."

"I ain't interested." He paused. "Sorry."

Harry laughed again. Sean was starting to hate the sound. "Sure, and once you get rejected by Viggo, you know who to find."

Sean bit his lip to swallow back the retort, turning away to look at the dance floor again. But the man- _Viggo_ was already gone, and Sean cursed himself and Harry for getting distracted. Not that he would have the courage to have approached Viggo even if Harry hadn't cut in suddenly, but he would've had time to watch him. To look at him. Now he only had a few seconds of memories.

He sighed to himself as he plodded over to the bar, ordering a Guinness. He stared moodily at the glass of heavy, dark beer before picking it up and downing half of it in one gulp.

***

"I went to the toilet."

"... Wha?"

"That's why I disappeared. I went to the toilet to-"

"Am I the one tellin' the story, or are you?"

"I'll shut up, I'll shut up."

"Good."

***

"Um."

There was someone _else_ standing beside him. Sean sighed quietly, and turned around, holding up his glass of beer so he could hide his face behind it- and immediately put it down when he saw who it was.

The man on the dance floor- _Viggo_ was standing there, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched up. "Uh," he said, and he smiled. There were tiny, tiny creases at the corner of his eyes. 

His eyes were blue. Sean blinked, and his breath caught in his throat. Viggo cleared his, and swallowed. Sean was suddenly incredibly glad he had put down his mug, because he would've dropped it by now, staring at the movement of Viggo's Adam's apple as it bobbed.

"I... noticed you were looking at me and, uh, this probably isn't the right way to introduce myself, damnit," Viggo had an American accent, Sean noted, dazedly. He should've known that someone this good-looking wasn't from this country. "I'm Viggo. Hi."

"I know yer name," Sean blurted, and cursed himself and his accent. He probably sounded like some rural hick, and he rubbed slightly at his nose. He cleared his throat and spoke again, this time in the posh London accent that he had been trying to learn. "I mean- someone else told me your name. He said his was Harry? I'm Sean."

"Sean," Viggo said, and it was like he was curling the single syllable around his tongue. Caressing the name. Sean clenched his hand hard so as to not shiver. "Sean," Viggo said again, and he smiled, reaching out a hand.

"Will you come back with me?"

***

"Still have ta say that it sounds like a line out of a damn porno."

"I was actually hoping more of 'romance novel'. And before you protest, it was just the first thing that popped into my head."

"Yeah?"

"Cross my heart."

"Not very reassuring, that."

"Hey!"

"Yer an artist, ain't you? None of you ta be trusted."

***

It was fast, so incredibly fast, and Sean barely could catch a breath as he was stumbling up the stairs to Viggo's apartment. Viggo had explained to him, breathlessly, that the elevator had broken down two weeks ago and the landlord hadn't bothered to get it fixed yet, because the fat bastard lived on the ground floor. Viggo, however, lived on the fourth. Sean didn't mind; it gave him some time to steady himself.

Not enough, but nothing would be enough if he was being logical about it. Instead, he slammed Viggo against his own door the moment they stepped into the flat, his hands against the strong, bare shoulders as he swooped in to kiss him. Viggo's fingers scrabbled at his own jacket, opening his mouth to Sean, and his mouth was so different from a girl's that Sean had to pause for a moment. His head was whirring, vision blurring slightly in front of him, and Viggo's mouth tasted like nothing that he had ever.

Like gin and lemon. The lips beneath his were too thin, and there was slight stubble that scraped against his skin. The shoulders beneath his own were bony, and as Viggo pulled him closer, his large hands cupping against Sean's ass, he could feel Viggo's flat, hairy chest against his own. The rasp of his jeans against Viggo's leather pants was suddenly loud and sharp, but Sean couldn't pulled away. Not when Viggo was rocking his hips up, and Sean could _feel_ him growing hard against his thigh. Not when Sean himself was getting hard. From Viggo's mouth and hands and chest and body and especially his goddamn _cock_.

_Well_ , he thought to himself. _That settled it, then._

Except it wasn't. Not really. Because Viggo was pulling away, looking at him with steady eyes that were suddenly too old for the eyeliner that he was wearing. Sean couldn't help himself - he reached up and traced his thumb over the top lid, smudging against the liner, and Viggo closed his eyes and leaned against him, his lip parting. Heated breath ghosted against Sean's temple and his ear, and he shivered.

It was folly, he knew. He barely knew this barely. He knew nothing about him except his first name, and even that he wasn't entirely sure of (what kind of name was Viggo anyway) because of the loudness of the music at the club. He should turn away and go back home--

Home, to his empty bed and the ring that lay at a bottom of his closet, mocking him with its almost insubstantial weight every single time Sean even thought about it. Home, where he would close his eyes and remember the sight of Viggo's hair shining underneath the multi-coloured spotlights of the club. Home, where he would look at his fingers and see the kohl that somehow got under his fingernails, and remember the startling grey-blue of Viggo's eyes.

No, home wouldn't do. Nowhere but here would do, because there was something within himself that was tug-tug-tugging him towards Viggo, pressing their bodies so tightly together that he could feel it whenever Viggo inhaled.

Sean tilted his head and kissed him again, and Viggo slanted his head, pulling at his wrist. Sean took a step back, his hand cupping against Viggo's neck, and he took a step backwards, then another, their kiss never breaking even as Viggo led him slowly and steadily to the bed.

When Sean's back hit the mattress, his lips felt hot and swollen and wet, and it was all he could do to hook his thumbs beneath the waistband of his too-tight jeans, pulling and kicking them off.

***

"I ain't gonna tell the rest."

"Why not? I want to know everything you feel. _Everything._ "

"Yer just a fuckin' pervert who wants to get off to hearin' me talk about being fucked."

"If you _told_ me that this was your first time with a man, I would've let you topped-"

"Did you hear me complainin'?"

"... Yes? I mean, not about sex, but about having to talk about it."

"That's entirely different, oy."

"So I really won't get to hear about sex from your point-of-view?"

"Well, if you need me to say it ta you like this, you weren't listenin' ta me very well durin' the act itself, were you?"

"Point taken."

***

Sticky. He was damn sticky everywhere.

Sean shifted on the sheets, a little uncomfortable with the giant congealing spot on his stomach. It felt _disgusting_ , but he really didn't want to get up to find a towel to clean himself off, much less take an actual shower. Was this what was meant by feeling well-fucked?

"Hey," Viggo said, and he was smiling lopsidedly at Sean. He reached out with a hand, and Sean immediately scooted back a little bit, and he let it drop. "Stay here and give me a sec," he said, and he was getting up.

Sean blinked, but the mystery was solved quickly enough when he earned the tap running in the bathroom. Viggo came back quickly enough with a towel, and handed it over. Sean cleaned himself quickly enough, swiping at his thighs with efficient, sharp strokes, trying to not touch himself too much or to linger on the nagging ache inside him.

"So..." Viggo shifted from foot to foot, looking awkward and gangling and ridiculous because he was stark naked with his hands placed at his hips as if he was searching for phantom waistbands or pockets to shove them into. "So, I can make a good guess that you don't have a boyfriend?"

A pause. Sean pushed himself up and off the bed in one swift motion, and reached for his pants. "No," he said shortly, his words clipped. "No, I ain't the boyfriend type."

"... Ah." The weight that one syllable had was more than the entire list of words that they had exchanged so far. Sean turned his back on him and started to pull his underwear and jeans on. "Still in the closet, then?"

Sean froze. Then, with a huge amount of control, he pulled his jeans over his hips and buttoned himself close. He picked up his white shirt and jacket and started for the door. "Go. Fuck. Yerself."

There was a sudden light in Viggo's eyes, and Sean felt the breath knocked out of his lungs as he was slammed against the wall. Viggo had moved so fast that he hadn't seen him, and his clothes dropped onto the ground with a soft _thump_ even as Viggo's lips scraped against his lips.

"I'm leaving in two days," he said, and his voice was half-muffled against Sean's collarbone. He could feel the scrape of teeth, so near his pulse point, and he exhaled shakily. "I'm going home. Back to America. Just two days, Sean. Do you think you think you can spare the weekend?"

Two days. Just one more day than a one-night stand, how much could it hurt? It wasn't as if he had anything else to do, and if nothing else- if nothing else, he could listen to an American accent and learn about the corners and shapes of it. Who knew, it might come into good use someday.

"Alright," he said, and somehow his hand was disobeying him, sliding into Viggo's hair without his permission. Sean turned his head, and the kiss against the edge of Viggo's mouth was almost involuntarily. "Alright. With one condition."

Viggo blinked, and cocked his head. 

"I'm topping the next time."

***

"I still can't believe that you asked that."

"Yer have yer priorities, I have mine. And stop interruptin' me, you wanker, or I'll stop tellin' the damn story and let you do it."

"No, no, don't. I'm shutting up now."

"... Suddenly, I'm real glad yer recordin' this. I'm pluckin' that bit out and savin' it as my damn ringtone."

***

They had sex until they were too tired to kiss or touch anymore. Sean refused to think about what it meant that he wanted Viggo even after they had sex; that he wanted to fuck him and be fucked by him over and over, until they were slumped over each other, bodies too oversensitised and exhausted to even _think_ about sex without cringing. 

The next morning, he woke up still half-sticky, draped over Viggo's chest and feeling his curly, rough hair tickling against his nose. Sean wrinkled his nose slightly, shaking his head as he made to move away, but Viggo's hand had slid into his hair. He followed the nudge towards his neck and tilted his head up, opening his mouth to the kiss.

Viggo kissed him with a surprising amount of gentleness and tenderness, as if he was slowly exploring every single corner of Sean's mouth, completely ignoring the morning breath that the both of them surely had. Sean, for his part, didn't even notice that, instead leaning in even harder and kissing Viggo back.

"Hey."

"Mornin'."

Viggo smiled quietly, and brushed Sean's hair to tuck it to the back of his ears. He leaned in and kiss him, this time on the temple. "I'll make breakfast. What do you want?"

Sean looked at him, and his lips curved up in a small, mischievous smile. "You got kippers?"

"If I want dead, smelly fish in the morning, Sean, I would kiss you again," Viggo deadpanned.

Sean snorted, swinging his legs over the bed. "Cereal's fine, anything's fine. I'm stealin' yer toothbrush."

"If you steal my toothbrush, what am I supposed to brush my teeth with?" Viggo, half-way out of the door, turned, eyebrow arched.

"You'll have ta find a new one ta use, won't you?" Sean matched the eyebrow, his arms crossing.

"Why can't you use the new one?"

"Because I don't want ta."

Viggo blinked, then snorted. He waved a hand. "Fine, fine. Go right ahead."

Sean smirked to himself, walking to the bathroom and closing the door. He needed to take a shower as well, he was feeling sticky all over. But he had to get rid of the dead-rat feeling behind his throat- and when he picked up the (Viggo's) toothbrush and stuck it into his own mouth to clean his teeth, he ignored the little voice inside him that was turning somersaults about using something of Viggo's.

He had already kissed him enough and fucked him enough to know the taste of his body, so why did an object matter?

***

"I have a-"

"Don't you fuckin' dare."

"I was just going to make a few suggestions."

"Nope. Shut up and keep listenin'."

**

Viggo had made them both grilled cheese sandwiches, and they weren't half-bad even though all of them were burnt at the edges and a couple had half of the crusts still on. Sean didn't exactly mind, because it was someone else's food and he still wasn't sure about the morning-after etiquette when it came to men. Or women either, but at least those he understood enough to wing it. This was entirely unfamiliar territory.

He was padding around the kitchen and living room in just his black briefs, because he refused to wear Viggo's clothes and tight jeans always looked ridiculous in the sunlight. Maybe it was like fairy dust or something, and whatever that made them attractive under the strobe lights of the club evaporated when the sun came out. Or maybe it was Viggo's ridiculous polar bear table cloth that mocked everything that tried to be anything more than casual and just a little childish.

Or maybe he was thinking too damn much for a bloke who was standing near-naked in his one-night stand's house, shifting from foot to foot as he chomped down a couple of sandwiches.

"You know," Viggo spoke, and Sean nearly jumped a foot in the air at the sudden voice that cut through the awkward silence. "I've never done this before."

Sean blinked. "Done... what?"

"This," Viggo said, and he spread a hand around himself. "Brought someone back to the flat. Let them stay until morning. Usually people at the club liked to duck back to the bathroom for a handjob or a blowjob and that was that, and I've probably had sex with more people in that place than I have faces I can recognise."

Sean was starting to blush furiously, and he swallowed his sandwich and was inordinately glad for the sticky feeling of melted cheese that seemed to stick his throat close. Viggo didn't seem to notice, or took his silence as a cue to continue, because that was what he did.

"I saw you and I liked you," he shrugged. "It took me a little while to ask you, though."

"You _liked_ me," Sean drawled, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah- hey, hey, don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Change the way you speak," Viggo's eyes were steady on Sean's, and Sean started a little. Swallowed. Tried to not start playing with the waistband of his underwear for the sake of something to do. "I like your original accent."

"I might be putting that one on," Sean countered, stubbornly keeping to the posh, RP accent. What did a Yank know about British accents anyway? How could he even _tell_?

"Nah," Viggo said, and his voice was soft. Not incriminating at all. "You don't sound as comfortable when you're speaking all posh and proper," he slipped into the RP accent with the last three words, grinning. "Besides, I've heard that all over. You're the only person I've met so far who speaks... the way you do."

"That's 'cuz they be all southern softies," Sean gave up on the pretense, shrugging his shoulders. "Throw any one of them oop North fer some good, hard work, and they will all break within a couple days."

"So you're from... up North?"

" _Sheffield_ ," Sean corrected. "I ain't like the Yorkshire bastards or anythi' like."

"Sheffield," Viggo said, and he rolled the word over on his tongue. Sean stared at him, because it should be impossible for the name of his hometown to sound _sultry_ in any circumstances, but Viggo managed to do it anyway.

***

“You’ve always been a damn bastard like that.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“You should.”

***

He leaned over and kissed him, tasting burnt cheese and bread and toothpaste in his mouth. It wasn’t much different from what was in his, and Sean shivered a little, his hand sliding into Viggo’s hair, holding him there; holding steady, though for whose benefits he would never admit.

“Let’s go out,” Viggo said suddenly, leaning his forehead against Sean when they broke the kiss. 

Sean made to pull away. “What? Are you out of yer damn mind? No!” 

“It’ll just be my studio,” Viggo said, and he wrapped his fingers around Sean’s hand, pulling it up and pressing at rough kiss at the back of it. It was something that was both too intimate and too ridiculous for the situation, yet somehow both of those qualities seemed to cancel out each other and it fitted. Or perhaps Sean just couldn’t take his eyes off Viggo’s mouth, and he stopped caring about what he did with it as long as it wasn’t to make stupid suggestions.

“No.”

“No one will see. It’s a secluded little room, with just one light source. There’s a darkroom to the side, and I—I want you to see my photographs. I want to take photographs of you, if you’d let me. I won’t even take pictures of your face if you don’t want me to. I won’t publish these or anything. I just want to take them.”

The words came out at a torrent, and Viggo’s eyes were still ridiculously blue in the morning’s light. Sean took a shuddering breath, and yanked his hand back, curling it into a fist by his side.

“Fine,” he said, and he thought back to his own paintings. His doodles, really, because they weren’t anywhere as beautiful enough to be called _paintings_. Paintings implied art, and his doodles weren’t as much art as him messing around, trying and failing to create it. Damn it, of all the people he could’ve met, he met a photographer. “Fine.”

Viggo’s smile was bright, and he stood up immediately. “Come on, let’s go now, then.”

“Wait,” Sean said, and he rocked back onto his heels, rising far slower to his feet. “What about clothes? I ain’t go any.”

“Well, you can borrow mine, right?”

***

“It gave you a sick sort of thrill, didn’t it, you pervert.”

“I’m surprised and shocked that you’ll level that sort of accusation at me.”

“For an actor, you’re such utter shit at fakin’ it.”

“In my defence, I’m not even trying. I _did_ like seeing you in my clothes.”

“Pervert.”

“Are you going to say that you don’t feel the same?”

“I’m not delusional, am I? I just don’t try it on the first day.”

“Well, I didn’t think there were going to _be_ other days, did I? Did you?”

“… Point.”

***

Viggo’s studio was a cramped little space with a gigantic window that replaced one of the walls, looking out to the greyish, damp, foggy London sky. Sean couldn’t make head or tails of architecture like that, because he knew that they were supposed to look out to the cityscape and that was supposed to be beautiful or something, but London’s an ugly bastard of a city. It was all grey buildings with pathetic little dottings of trees here and there, with huge monstrosities of construction that interrupted the view of buildings. The skies were always grey, or grey-blue which was just as bad, and there was always the constant, itching sensation of pollution, or fog, or fog caused by pollution, or all three at the same time.

There was nothing that made him miss Sheffield more than windows like this, looking out to London and showing him all the buildings that he was still not familiar with after so much time in this city. Or maybe it was because it was the opposite; that he had been in this place for so long and no one seemed to know him. London was and had always been the city of the blind, and Sean didn’t think he would stop feeling like that in this place. It was blind, deaf, dumb and had given up on smell and taste for the sake of survival. Whenever Sean felt like going out of doors, it was as if he was feeling his ways blind, using only his fingertips.

He hated the windows, but everything else was alright, if Sean had to make a judgement about it. It was neat in a haphazard sort of way, with equipment strewn everywhere and the tables filled with photographs. Sean wandered over to one of them, picking up one of them and squinting at it.

It was of a pool. A swimming pool. Sean squinted at it, and turned it around. The back didn’t give any illumination as to what on Earth was so special about that pool.

“I was thinking of creating… mm, a collection, I guess. Of photographs about pools,” Viggo noticed his scrutiny, and he was peering over his cameras to look at Sean. Sean blinked, and quickly put down the photograph.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what’s it going to be or why, but I just think that there’s something that can be said about it, you know? It’s just… one of those things that everyone has seen at least once in their lives—people in first-world countries anyway—and they just don’t think much about it. So if there’s a way that I can make them look at it all over again and see it in new ways… I want to try.” Viggo’s eyes were earnest, and he’d straightened up and started waving his hands around as he talked, and there was just something oddly charming about it. 

“You get what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Sean replied, and his smile was crooked. “Yeah, I do.”

Viggo blinked, “Really? Most people tell me I’m nuts.”

“Ain’t sayin’ that there’s nothin’ nuts about tryin’ to photograph a pool because everyone’s seen one before; it’s kind of counterproductive, you know? But wantin’ to show people that there’s something still ta be discovered in the mundane things—that’s what art is, right? Beneath your expensive cameras and everythin’.”

There was a long pause when Viggo just looked at him, eyes wide and lips parted. He looked mildly ridiculous, and Sean couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable, shoving his hands into his pockets. His shoulders hunched upwards, as if trying to hide his face beneath them.

“What-“ Viggo coughed, cleared his throat, and started again. “What are you doing in London, Sean?”

Sean sank even deeper into his posture. His shoulders were level with his ears by now. “None of yer business. Don’t pry.”

Like hell he was going to tell some stranger that he was in RADA. Viggo would probably laugh or something. He knew how ridiculous it sounded: a working-class boy like himself, speaking more like a factory worker than a stage performer, trying to become an actor. He had been laughed at enough by his mates and by the people in RADA itself to not want some Yank to think that what he was doing was _funny_.

“Alright, alright,” Viggo said, and he raised his hands in surrender. “Can I- take a few pictures of you, then?”

Sean looked at his hands, then back up. “No face shots.”

“No face shots.”

“… Alright, then,” he said. Or rather, that was what he meant to say. What actually came out of his mouth was something else entirely.

“I’m married.”

Viggo’s hands paused behind the camera. His eyes were unreadable, hooded and staring at Sean from beneath his heavy lids. “I’m sorry?”

“I said—“ and Sean found himself slipping back into his trained accent, all London-polished and nothing to do with Sheffield or the North or anything that didn’t have anything to do with the dirty ceiling just beyond the window. He took a deep breath. “I said that I’m married. And there’s—there’s a girl, back in my school, that I really liked.”

In for the penny, in for the pound. Somehow his hands had managed to clench at his side without his permission. Sean exhaled, and loosened the fists back into proper hands. He had no reason to be nervous, anyhow.

“Is there any more?” Viggo’s voice was quiet. Sean wished he would be angry. He knew he would be, in Viggo’s place.

“What?”

“Is there anymore?” Blue eyes lifted, and they were colder than the ice chips that hung off Sean’s windowsill every morning in window. “You’ve got a wife at home, a girlfriend at school—that’s two girls, right? Are there any more?”

Sean’s nails were digging into the palm of his flesh. “You’re making me sound like some kind of—some kind of Casanova moving from one girl to the next so quick.”

“No,” Viggo interrupted him, and his hand came down loud on the table. Sean made himself not flinch. “No, I’m making you sound like a slut.” 

There was a sudden silence. Sean didn’t know what to say, and there was hurt and anger and he should walk out here right now. He should turn around and never look back because he didn’t _have_ to take this kind of shit from some stranger he had only met and fucked the night before, and he was a fool. A right fool to tell this man—this _Viggo_ —about something that he hadn’t even told Mel. That he hadn’t even told Debra. That he hadn’t told anyone because it was impossible and they would judge.

They would look at him with the eyes that Viggo was, bright and harsh in their judgment, and Sean closed his eyes and breathed hard through his teeth. He turned around—

“Why did you sleep with me?”

Sean stopped, his ankle half-turned, his body facing the door more than it did Viggo. He didn’t turn back around. Instead he stared at the ceiling, as if it could give him all the answers. 

“I’ve got no goddamn idea,” he said, and that was perfectly true. Suddenly, Viggo’s clothes felt heavy and choking against his skin, and he tugged at the sleeves. “Guess I wanted you, when I first saw you in that club. Though if you want to ask me what I was doing in the club in the first place, I can’t tell you.”

Footsteps were usually loud in silence, but Viggo weren’t wearing any shoes and he practically ran forward. Sean felt himself being turned around, a hand slipping into his hair to hold his head in place as Viggo kissed him. He kissed him as if Sean was the last drop of water in the entire universe, and his other hand on Sean’s back was hot like a burning brand. Sean’s body arched forward, and he knew it was a crap idea and he should stop and go back home. He should call Mel and tell her what happened and beg her for forgiveness, but Viggo was licking into his mouth and forcing his teeth apart, and Sean was moaning against those lips, his hands clutching at Viggo’s sweater, holding him close and tight until their heartbeats were roaring in both their hearts. Roaring against each other, because they were so close.

This was the first time Sean had felt Viggo’s heartbeat. It would be funny if it wasn’t so screwed up. They were doing everything backwards, though—though, Sean didn’t know how it went with blokes. Maybe it was supposed to be like this.

“Stop me if you don’t want this,” Viggo murmured, his voice heavy against Sean’s neck. Sean closed his eyes, and his hands clenched and unclenched against Viggo’s shirt. It would be alright, he told himself. It would only be two days. Less than that, because Viggo needed time to pack and drive to the airport and all of that, didn’t he? Much less than that, because they had already spent a night together. So Sean was only left with a single day. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, and he could practically hear his heart shrivel to pieces. He could do with a single day. Then he would go back to Mel and her soft hands and softer lips and gorgeous tits.

He could do with a single day.

“Finish what you started, you daft bastard.”

The sun was outside and the window was so open that anyone who looked in would be able to see everything. Heck, the people on the opposite building would be able to see everything if they squinted. But Sean didn’t care, and he let Viggo pull down his pants and his underwear. He threw his head back as Viggo swallowed him whole and shoved spit-slicked fingers inside him. His fingers left phantom claw marks on Viggo’s shoulder when he was swallowed down, surrounded by that wet heat. He smacked his head against the concrete flooring and saw stars and tears came into his eyes. It felt different from all the other times someone had done this to him, the tongue rougher and teeth larger and the hands much, much sharper. Later on when Sean closed his hand around Viggo’s cock, he felt the shape and feel of it branded onto his fingers, and it was too much and it shouldn’t even exist in the first place.

 

Viggo smelled like sunlight and sex and a little bit of charcoal from the grilled cheese they had for breakfast.

***

 

“Ain’t ever been able to go to a barbeque without thinkin’ about you, after that.”

“… Yeah?”

“Mm.”

“I’ve always wished that I took a photograph. Just one. Even if it pissed you off, I wished I had one.”

***

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

The ceiling had hairline cracks all over the place, Sean noted. He was lying flat on his back against the hard concrete floor, his head pillowed against Viggo’s arm. The place smelled of sweat and sex again, and Sean stared at the window, wishing that it would be the normal kind that he could open and let some air in. Even fog and pollution would smell better at this rate.

He was avoiding the subject. Sean sighed, rubbing against his eyes.

“Nah, I want ta,” he murmured, but he didn’t turn around to look at Viggo. Not yet. “My wife—she’s my girlfriend back home, you know? We grew up together, went ta the same schools and everythin’. She’s… safe, a nice girl. Me pa and ma love her to the last finger of her little hand, and everyone thinks she’s my girl, and she kind of is.” A pause, and he corrected himself. “Yeah, she _is_ , and it’s all good when I was stayin’ ‘ome and everythin’, but then I had ta leave ta come _‘ere_. That’s a couple of years ago, and me mates—they keep talkin’ ‘bout how she misses me, and I was thinkin’—I might be on ta somethin’ big. So I was thinkin’ I needed someone ta keep me grounded, keep me reminded of back home, and she said yes. So I went home for a weekend and I married her then, then I came back here. Didn’t feel any different, because I ain’t got enough money ta buy a ring fer her, and like hell am I going to ask me ma and pa fer a money for me _weddin’ ring_. I told her I would get one fer her with my first paycheck. That’s still a hell-long time comin’.”

He rubbed at his eyes again. Sean had never told this to anyone. It was always just assumed that he would marry Debra, and that would be it, and at school… at school, he had never told anyone that he was married. Especially not Mel. 

God, this was a damn mess. Sean took a deep breath, and when he started speaking again, the words were all in a rush.

“At school, I met this other girl. She’s everythin’ that’s different. She talks like I do, a little—that’s how we met, and we started talkin’. We’re the two northerners in a mess of southern softies with their posh accents and long noses lookin’ down on us, and no one knows anyone else ‘round here in London, whereas back home if you break a window the whole town would’ve known it by nightfall and when you go home you know you’re just waitin’ fer pa ta get out the damn belt. But she’s damn pretty, and she understands, and we’re talkin’… I ain’t ever good at just talkin’ ta girls. I like her, but I like the one back home too, and they ain’t knowing ‘bout each other if I’ve got anythin’ ta do with it, and it’s all a damn mess.”

“And now you’re here,” Viggo said, and his voice was quiet. His hand stroked against Sean’s face, brushing nonexistent hair away from his face. “Talking about your problems with the women in your lives with the man who just fucked you into the floor.”

Sean squinted at him. “Are you takin’ the damn piss?”

“No,” Viggo said, and his smile was crooked. “I was just thinking that this might be the problem, that’s all. You’re not very suited for women.”

“Yeah? And which Professor am I talkin’ ta, now?”

Viggo laughed, and his head fell back against the floor. They were both staring up at the cracked ceiling now, and Sean could feel his shrug against his neck. “None. I just watch people, that’s all. It’s not really weird, is it? I mean, you have Bowie shoving his face into some guy’s crotch…” He grinned, and reached out, tugging at Sean’s little earring. 

Sean yelped. He had almost forgotten that the thing existed, and at the touch, curled up instinctively like a caterpillar, a hand hiding the ring. “I ain’t askin’ fer yer advice, bastard,” he grumped.

“No, you aren’t,” Viggo mused. “Do you want it, though?”

“Like hell I do.”

“Fair enough,” and Sean felt that shrug again. There was silence, and he shifted, a little uncomfortable after all he’d just said. Then he felt fingers tugging at his hair again, and Viggo was speaking.

“I’ve never found anyone that I actually want a relationship with.”

“What?” Sean jerked around to stare at him, blinking. “Yer a virgin before—“

“I said _relationship_ ,” Viggo sounded exasperated, and he half-laughed, shaking his head. “Not sex. Sex’s great. Sex’s plenty. Especially since they managed to make condoms out of something that’s not pig’s intestines.”

“They made—”

“Yeah, a long time ago.” Viggo shook his head, and tugged at his hair again. “Can I continue with my story without getting interrupted?”

Sean rolled his eyes and turned around until he was facing the ceiling again. He fell silent and waited, patiently, for Viggo to continue.

“I just… never found anyone to have a proper relationship with, I guess. I’m not there a lot, because there’s so many things to do in the world. So many places to visit, so many things to do, so many ideas that I want to see blossom from something that’s in my head to reality. There’s just… _so much_ of it and I can’t slow down for someone else. If I slow down, I start stagnating, and I stop creating, and there would be nothing left of me, I think. But everyone wants—dates, walks along the park, walks along the beaches. They want to bring me out to show me off to their friends. Whether it’s a man or a woman, they just want so much of my _time_ , and I can’t give them that…” He trailed off there, and heaved a sigh that Sean could feel from his shoulder.

“I think the shorthand of it is that I’m a selfish bastard.”

Sean blinked, and rolled over until he folded his legs underneath himself, looking down at Viggo. He punched him on the shoulder.

“Yer like a guy who got bitten by a fish on the toe and started declarin’ that the sea is full of dangerous creatures,” he said wryly, smirking for all his worth. “Just find someone who has as much ta do as you do.”

Viggo raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? You think that works?”

“No idea,” Sean shrugged. “I’ve got plenty of my own stuff ta do all the time, and both girls don’t complain. Hell, I see the wife once every few _months_ , and she ain’t complainin’ ‘bout it.”

“Are you suggesting that I take your wife off your hands, Sean?” Viggo rolled his hips upwards, nudging Sean with the corner of one. Sean snorted, punching him again before he rolled back to his back. He looked outside the window.

“It’s damn bright out there.”

“I have to go back soon,” Viggo said, and there was such a strong wistfulness to his voice that it almost made Sean turn around. He squeezed his eyes shut instead. “Well, I have to once I’ve finished up packing up everything here.” There was a pause. “Do you want to help me? Pack, I mean.”

Sean turned around, staring. “You’ll trust me ta handle those expensive cameras of yers?”

There was a snort. “You wish. You can pack up everything else, and I’ll just return those cameras to their rightful owner.” Sean must have made some kind of a face, because Viggo laughed. “I’m a poor Yankee exchange student, and those things cost way too much to belong to me. They’re on loan.”

***

“I’ve gotten better cameras since then.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Some of the stuff is older than the both of us put together, and the photographs are gorgeous.”

“The important question here is if I’m still allowed ta get near them?”

“I got a few of them just to take photographs of you, I think.”

“That a yes?”

“That’s a ‘hell yes’.”

***

It was odd to go through Viggo’s photographs. Sean’s teachers had been harping on the fact that when he looked at a script he must look at it on its own merits without thinking of the scriptwriter or the playwright behind it, but he had never been able to get rid of the feeling that to look at someone’s work was to look into their heads. And Viggo had a strange head alright—his photographs were full of strange angles, stranger subjects. There was one that look vaguely like an apple but the focus was all wrong, because the only thing that seemed to jump out to the eye was the tiny, bird-pecked hole at the side.

It would look good as a painting, Sean thought. One of those weird, almost-newfangled Andy Warhol pop-art things, where the focus was all wrong and the perspective was crazy and nothing seemed to make sense and the senselessness seemed to be the point. He squinted looking at the photograph, trying to figure out what was so unique about the thing that it deserved to have pictures taken of it, because he had seen plenty of apples like that. In gardens, on the ground, all over London.

This must be why he was studying to be an actor and Viggo’s the photographer.

“You should paint,” he said, turning around to look at Viggo. Viggo, who was dismantling his camera equipment and putting them gently into boxes, handling them as if they were babies. They were probably more expensive and irreplaceable than babies. 

“What?”

“You should _paint_ ,” Sean said, and he emphasised the last word with a twang of a posh London accent, grinning with the corner of his mouth. He waved the photograph around, showing Viggo it. “Stuff like this only looks good in paintings. Like Dali, De Chirico, you know? With their melting clocks, psychedelic skies and double-sided mirrors and such.”

“… You know about Surrealist art?”

Sean blinked. “They’re pretty interestin’, aren’t they?” He paused. “Don’t really like Dada, though. Toilets on display in museums just sound fuckin’ crazy. But stuff like—‘this is not a pipe’? Yer photograph is exactly like that. You’ve got an apple here, but ain’t an apple really, ‘course yer lookin’ at this bit right here, and that bit says more of a bird and worms than apples. So it’s a spoiled apple, but that’s not really the point.”

 

Viggo was staring at him. He shifted a little, from foot to foot at the scrutiny, and turned away and started packing up the photographs again.

“You know…” Viggo started, and his voice was contemplative. “I’ve never had anyone pick up a photograph and immediately grasp what it’s about. _Never._ ”

Sean blinked at him before he laughed, rubbing a hand against his nose. “Look, you don’t have ta compliment me like that—”

“It’s not a compliment,” Viggo interrupted. “It’s just the truth. Even the art circles I go around—I have to explain myself.”

“… Hah.” He considered that for a moment before he shrugged. “Think it means something?”

Viggo’s smile was somehow full of secrets and completely open at the same time. He ducked his head down, pulling the boxes close and starting to duct-tape them shut. The silence grew between them as Sean watched him, waiting for an answer. When none seemed forthcoming, he shrugged to himself and dumped all the photographs into the paper boxes and shutting them.

“Can you bring them over to the apartment?” Viggo asked, and for some reason, he was hiding his eyes behind his hair. His shoulders were hunched, raised almost to his ears. “I’ll return the cameras and come back.” He chewed on a lip, and then slipped a hand into his pocket.

“Here.”

Sean stared at the key that was being handed to him. “I can ransack yer place and take everythin’, oy.”

“I know, but there’s really nothing to take. Everything valuable is around here,” he waved a hand around the studio. “And the photographs have more sentimental value than any monetary value, so…”

“You’re fuckin’ weird. Do you always trust your one-night stands so much?” Sean said, and then he shrugged, taking the key and hefting the box onto his hip. 

Viggo just gave him a grin. “Why, you want to know if you’re special?”

Sean bit his lip almost inadvertently, shrugging as he looked away. There was heat in his cheeks from the question, and he just waved his hand to and fro. It probably looked like he had an aborted seizure, or was starting to do some sort of interpretive dance or something. Fucking ridiculous.

“I’m not bothered anyway,” he said, and shoved his free hand into his pocket to do something with it. “I’ll—”

“Can you wait for me?”

“What?”

“Wait for me,” Viggo said, and his smile was lopsided and full of meanings that Sean didn’t understand, and he was getting really fucking tired about that. About double-meanings and secrets and expressions that he needed to analyse instead of simply knowing. He opened his mouth, but Viggo was talking again.

“At the flat, I mean. We’ll make lunch, and… I don’t know. Wait for me?”

There were so many reasons why not to. This was just for a weekend, and they were strangers. They were still strangers; he didn’t even know Viggo’s last name, for god’s sake. They weren’t friends. There wouldn’t be anything for them to talk about, for him to wait for Viggo for.

So he didn’t answer his own answer when he gave it.

“Sure, why not?”

***

“So, why did you?”

“Are you seriously fuckin’ _askin_ ’?”

“Of course. If I’m not, I won’t actually ask it.”

“Yer not getting’ yer ego stroked this way, wanker.”

“I don’t have an ego, remember?”

“Like hell you don’t. And shut up, I’m tellin’ a story, and you’re being all interruptin’ again.”

***

Sean waited. Like some kind of pouf or something. He might wear skinny jeans and dye his hair red like David Bowie, and he might have taken Viggo’s cock inside him at least twice last night—but he wasn’t some kind of fucking pounce or pansy or a damn sissy. He wasn’t a bird either, waiting for Viggo to come back to his apartment. Especially since he had no idea what on earth he was waiting for.

He was getting angry for reasons he couldn’t exactly understand himself, much less describe. It left him all choked up, his breath becoming like fire in his throat, and he smacked his hand against the wall of Viggo’s apartment. Over and over, and he should just wear his washed clothes—damp be damned—and go back home. Back to the apartment he shared with his mates.

Might as well throw away the jeans, because like hell was he going to that club again. If this was what happened every single time he went over to a man’s place for a fuck… Sean rubbed against his eyes and punched against the wall again, sullenly. He couldn’t leave. Damnit, he couldn’t leave because Viggo had given him his _keys_ and it was pretty obvious that the man didn’t have any others. If Sean left now he would be locking Viggo out of his own apartment, and Viggo might have pissed him off by breathing, but he hadn’t pissed him off that much.

Goddamnit. He sighed, and slumped down on the ratty foldout chair in the kitchen, his head dropping onto his arms.

Then he heard a knock on the door.

Sean shot up in his seat, and he was scrambling to stand and walk and run all at the same time. He stumbled over the threshold between the kitchen and the sitting room, grabbing the bunch of keys on the table, and pulled open the door.

“Hello, sir, are you the owner of the house?”

It was a girl. Youngish, probably his age, dressed in a blouse and a proper tan skirt, her feet in stockings and sensible heels. She was wearing too much lipstick, and she didn’t have much tits. She was pretty, in some sort of nebulous way, and she was holding a file in her hands. There was a practiced smile on her lips.

Sean scowled.

“No.”

And he slammed the door and leaned against it.

 

He was acting like a damn fool. Sean looked at his own hand, and curled it into a hard fist, his nails digging into the flesh. He wasn’t a teenager; he should know better. He didn’t even know why he agreed to stay two days. He would—write a note, or something. Put it under Viggo’s door, at somewhere that he would see it, and he would slip the key under the carpet or something.

If Viggo didn’t come back before he finished writing, he would leave. He would just—go. Go back home and start reading his scripts and preparing for his classes. Sean looked around him, grabbing a stubbly pencil and a flyer, turning it back and start to scribble on it.

_Viggo_ , he wrote, and immediately cancelled the name. It didn’t sound right. _Dear Viggo_ , he tried, and he didn’t even get past the first ‘D’ before scribbling it out with a vengeance.

_V_ , _I_ —

What was he supposed to say? That he chickened out? That he didn’t want to wait anymore? That he didn’t know what he was waiting for? That he had a wife back home and a girlfriend at school and that’s far too much romance for one man without adding another bloke to the mix? That he didn’t know what he wanted? It was all true, but it was everything that Sean would never tell anyone.

Well, he might tell Viggo. He told him about Debra and Mel and he had never told _anyone_ about them, not even his mates. It was just something about Viggo that made Sean open up and start talking, but that was probably just the really good sex. Wasn’t there some sort of study or article that said how much fucking loosened someone’s tongue? And pillow talk was always the downfall of spies in those crap novels that tried to copy James Bond…

Sean was chewing on the pencil. He pulled it out of his mouth and glanced at the door. No knock. He tore away the scribbled-on part of the flying, and started again.

_V,_

_I left the key underneath the mat. Don’t let strangers into your house next time._

_S._

There. Simple, sparse, and he was finished with it. Done deal. He placed the pencil down with a satisfactory _clack-thump_ against the wood of the table, and looked down at himsef.

He really should go. Sean tugged at the hem of his shirt and looked at the door again before sighing to himself and pulling it down. He went to the washing machine and took out his clothes. They were half-dried and ridiculously wrinkled. He couldn’t possibly wear them—but they wouldn’t have dried before night time anyway. No real reason for him to stay here.

Sean shoved the clothes into the washer and meandered over the note.

_P.S.: Took the set of clothes I wore. Left mine in your washer. Do with them whatever you wish._

It wasn’t as if he needed those jeans ever again, and the shirts were a dime-a-dozen. He could just… keep Viggo’s clothes. They fitted him fine. Sean folded the note and went to the door, pulling it open—there was no one there, of course. He didn’t expect there to be. It would be too much like a cliché romance movie that the chicks liked to watch otherwise.

Sean stepped out of the apartment. Closed the door behind him and heard as the _click_ seemed to echo down the hallway. He shrugged his shoulders at his own fancies before he locked the door, slipping the note underneath the door until only a white corner could be seen. The key went under the welcome mat.

Then he turned around and headed for the staircase. At the top, he turned around because he couldn’t resist that one last glance.

 

The door told him nothing, so he left.

***

Viggo went home after a long detour at the park. He smoked as he walked, his hands shoved into his pockets and his eyes cast down. There was something fascinating about the pavement, but he didn’t have a camera in his hand and he was far too tired to even think of art.

He wasn’t surprised that there was no answer at the knock, and he dropped down to pull up the mat. He found his key there, and opened the door—only then he found the note, and he slammed his door shut and locked it in one swift motion, not even caring about his shoes or his clothes because he was rushing in, nearly ripping the washer’s door off as he pulled out Sean’s clothes.

White shirt, blue jeans. A pair of black briefs. Viggo pressed the shirt to his nose and took a long inhale, but there was no scent left. There was only his own detergent, and the note in his hand was starting to crumple. He let the shirt drop back to the washer.

A single moment, a single breath. That was all he allowed himself before he went to find that photograph, the one of an apple. There was a photo frame he had around, and the photograph was of a couple of friends he had in Argentina—a reminder of a time when he had roots. Viggo slid that photo out and placed the one with the apple into the frame. Slowly, he folded the note and tucked it in behind it, and locked the frame.

Then he went to start to pack. He had a plane to catch tomorrow.

***

“Fuckin’ hell, you went out _walkin’_?”

“Yeah.”

“While I was standin’ in yer damn kitchen waitin’ like some idiot?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I really don’t know. Trust me, I’ve asked myself that before. I’ve asked myself that question so many, many times. I don’t know.”

“ _Hell_.”

“Mm.”

“…”

“Hey, Sean? Why didn’t you… leave an address? Or just a number?”

“… God, I don’t know.”

***

It didn’t take him long to put it out of his mind. Sean never did forget, but he could put it out of his mind. The memories were starting to fade—or he was fooling himself enough to believe it was, anyway. It was more than enough that when he saw a poster for some American remake called _A Perfect Murder_ , he ignored the ‘Viggo’ on the poster, ignored the shadow of a familiar face, and walked right past.

The Viggo he knew was a photographer. He stayed behind the camera, and not in front of it. He wasn’t an actor. He couldn’t be.

There wasn’t any reason to linger.

***

_“He’s an artist, you know? A conman, but he has some real skill with painting, especially abstract works. We’ll be hiring someone for that, of course, so you don’t have to worry about it. Just tell the artist about how you’re playing Shaw, so he knows what to go with…”_

_“I’m sorry if this is inconvenient, but is it possible for me to paint all them myself?”_

_“… You want to paint them yourself? But his paintings filled his studio! There should be a lot of them!”_

_“I’ll paint them myself. I promise that I’ll tell you if I can’t meet the deadline for production, but I want to paint them all myself.”_

_“… Fine, fine. But why do you want to?”_

_“I’ve always wanted to. Someone once suggested to me that I try, but… I’ve never had a real reason to until now. Besides—an artist’s work reflects upon him, right? So if I’m playing an artist, I need to know how he paints too.”_

***

Sean saw that name and that face again, on another poster. _A Walk on the Moon_. Abby wanted to see it. He convinced her to see _The Matrix_ instead, and refused to think more about those cheekbones, and those eyes, and that damn dimple on his chin.

It would be so easy to look up this man. He might not be technologically-savvy, but he could just call up his agent and ask. He would know; it was his job to keep track of these things. Just one phone call and his question would have their answers. He would have photographs of the man and an entire filmography on his doorstep by the end of the day if he so chose. Sean wasn’t a big man on campus, not exactly, but he had enough clout to get someone else to do something that simple for him.

He didn’t. After all, there was nothing to be remembered. 

***

“Sean! Seanie! _Beanie_!” 

Sean, dressed in full Boromir garb, looked around. Orlando’s voice was distinctive, the southern-softy twang ringing out amongst the trees amongst the set. He was smiling on automatic; part of his mind was worried. Their Aragorn was gone, and the new one was supposed to be here today, wasn’t he?

“Bog off, you southern softie, and stop shouting the trees down,” he grumbled, moving over. The light slanted past the shadows of the trees there, and all Sean could see was the shadow of a jaw, a pair of sharp cheekbones, and blue, blue eyes. Sean stopped dead.

“Hi.” A soft-spoken voice, with the same annoyingly American twang. Sean’s brain screeched to a stop. The man in front of him only smiled, and held out his hand.

Sean reached out on automatic, clasping it. It felt warm. Incredibly warm. A familiar warmth, and how pathetic was he, for remembering that?

“Viggo Mortensen. I’m… your new Aragorn, I guess,” a one-shouldered shrug, and that was familiar too.

“Sean,” he said, and he was aware of Orlando’s puzzled look, and he knew how much of a fool he might look, with his eyes wide and lips parted and his breath stoppered in his throat. “Sean Bean. Boromir.”

“Yeah,” Viggo said, and his smile hid a thousand secrets. 

“Yeah, I know.”

_End_


End file.
